Then I saw the first specimens of what passed for the local fauna: a level 160 zombie grizzly bear and a mutant reindeer, his antlers glowing the same acid green. He wasn't radioactive, surely? A Geiger counter would have come in handy: I didn't wish to share the dragon's fate.
The reindeer noticed me and froze just like the skeletons back in the fortress, apparently unable or unwilling to flee. Gingerly I approached him, running my hand along the beast's warm side, as he snorted, shuddering, his berserk bloodshot eyes squinting at me. I reconsidered and stepped back. No need to upset the critter. His upper lip rose, exposing some definitely non-herbivore canine teeth that added conviction to my decision.
I walked along a barely discernable road reduced to a trail by earth deposits and a riot of greenery. Occasional ruins studded my path: watch towers atop of some strategic high points; the crumbling shells of inns and taverns clinging to the roadside where they'd once promised shelter and food to tired wayfarers. All the buildings were in various stages of decay. And if you shook your head, switching from high-fantasy mode to today's realities, you could discern the stitches of automatic weapons that had once ripped through the walls and the petals of shrapnel left by every caliber shell under the sun.
I walked over to the pockmarked ruins of a tower and rummaged through a heap of rubble at its base. Soon a piece of shrapnel lay in my hand, silver and purple, its edges ragged and incredibly sharp. It didn't look as if time had any power over this once-deadly piece of metal. Once I had rubbed it free from dust, it glistened in the sun just like it must have done eons ago. I attempted to read its stats.
Mithril Ore. Metal content: 8%. Weight: 0.22 Lbs.
Jesus. May I have two, please? So those steel invaders used depleted mithril to knock up their missiles? That was rich! I thought I knew why the Titans hadn't been back yet: they must still be sitting next to a mithril Everest even now, smearing the desperate tears from their greedy faces knowing they couldn't stuff it all in their pockets.
If you remembered that mithril was ten times the price of gold, my little find could easily cost anything up to eighty gold. I liked this kind of math. I stood on the hilltop, looking over the unfolding panorama of several busted ruins and a few promising shell holes, long collapsed and overgrown with grass. For all I knew, it could have been a tree uprooted a hundred years ago, having shifted a good dozen cubic feet of earth in its fall. Then again, the bottom of the hole could conceal the mithril tail fin of a five-hundred kilo bomb...
The gold rush got the better of me. I spent the next half-hour crawling on all fours at the foot of the tower. Finally, I slumped onto a cleaner strip of grass and poured out my finds in front of me. Eight glistening fragments, sharp and angular, weighed in at about six hundred grams: a Klondike times Eldorado. They didn't happen to have a fifty-ton tank buried here somewhere, did they? Had I had a dozen diggers complete with spades, I'd be driving a Ferrari by this time tomorrow. Having said that, I wouldn't have changed Hummungus for any kind of Rolls Royce. But then again, there had to be some mithril bear item recipes around, surely? It was about time I got myself a cool set of purple armor, too. Having said that, it all depended on the resulting item's stats. Probably, I'd be better off finding some way to use mithril to upgrade the already existing items. In any case, with my negligible forging and enchanting skills, I'd have to pick the experts' brains.
I carefully poured my finds into my bag, added a placemark to my map, cast a concerned look at the sun and started out for the valley below.
After another hour of watchful walking, I climbed another hill. A breathtaking view opened out before me, revealing a huge fortress, apparently very ancient—older than the dragon and in about the same state.
"Holy cow. Stalingrad, January 1943," I muttered.
The outside walls formed an octagon three stories high, each of its eight sides about half a mile long, studded with towers every two hundred feet or so. I estimated the total length of the walls at about two miles, times the density of the soldiers needed to defend the fortresses' seventy towers under attack. The resulting figure made me feel sick. This fortification had been designed to accommodate one hell of a crowd. That's not even counting the second row of walls that showed behind the first one, while the third and final line of defense loomed up at the heart of the castle.
The road snaked downhill toward a small fort that arched over the once-busy trade route, covering the access to the main gates against any potential enemy. At close range, the fortress turned out to be in an even sadder state: the proverbial Reichstag building after the storm. The once-unscalable walls grinned through their missing teeth exposing dark gaps and crumbling drops. I passed the fort and dived into the gateway. The walls' sheer thickness was astounding.
Congratulations! You have discovered a castle!
Class: Super Nova
The capture of the castle is impossible due to irreparable damage to the Control Room.
I paused, imagining myself to be the proud owner of that behemoth. The Black Lord in his gloomy citadel. While it sure tickled my vanity, I had my doubts I'd be able to keep such a juicy morsel. I dreaded to think of the sums the Admins would demand just for buying out the land and buildings.
The road took a ninety-degree turn, taking me to a littered passage between the two walls. That was clever: in case the attackers did break through, they would have to cover another few hundred feet under crossfire, losing speed, manpower and enthusiasm. Did I say a few hundred feet? I had to walk well over a mile tracing the 180-degree curve of the wall until I finally saw the gates which led inside the second line of defense.
That must have been some blood-bath, I tell you. I stared at two-feet deep chips in the walls generously pockmarked by automatic guns and streaked with molten stone—the latter, if the truth were known, could have been left by the defenders as well as the attackers. The picture was complete with a couple of petrified mountain trolls. Their massive bodies, perforated by some large-caliber quick-firer, had frozen the moment death had looked into their glazed eyes.
One of them held an interesting weapon. Collapsing on one knee as he died, he leaned against his club, trying to regain his balance. Even now the club still glistened purple. Most of all it reminded me of the torn-out barrel of a tank turret with its recognizable fat thermal sleeve and a rather battered loading mechanism that the troll must have used to bash the enemy with.
A prompt popped up:
Depleted mithril ore. Metal content: 1%. Weight: 1628 Lbs.
Visibly disappointed, my inner greedy pig poked at his calculator. The resulting figure sent him into a stupor. Seventy-four thousand gold! Immediately that raised a lot of questions. I didn't for one moment doubt the existence of various ore benefication methods that would leave me with a nice neat fifteen-pound ingot of pure mithril. The questions started with the costs, the losses of the valuable ore, as well as logistics and shipping. And how I was I supposed to cut it up or shove the ten-feet barrel into a furnace? Besides, it was breaking my heart robbing the beautiful death statue. No sculptor in the world could recreate the tragedy of the piece, the last exertion, the forehead wrinkled with effort as the troll attempted to force himself back to his feet and onto his enemies. It commanded so much compassion and respect... As far as I was concerned, it would be the last item to end up in the furnace.